The last thing he remembers is Vance yelling at him before the glass shattered, a sharp bright blast...then nothing. McGee Centric.
Warnings: Minor Character Death. Season 10, Episode 1 Spoilers. McGee Whumpage.
Authors Note: That new episode hit me right in the heart. Which is why I'm writing this. Though I do wish Tim got more screen time, at least he hasn't kicked the bucket is what I was dreading would happen. Can't have everything can we? Contains written depictation of events in Season 9 Finale Till Death Do Us Part but takes place in Season 10 Episode 1 of Extreme Prejudice. If you haven't seen it, please turn back due to the fact that this is massive spoilers.
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own NCIS. I will never obtain such a thing and any plots or characters that one may recognise from the original author is not mine.
"McGee! Get Out!"
It was Vance that startled him, making him jump but his attention was too firmly drafted to his computer screen, nimble fingers flying across the keyboard with a pace not even Timothy McGee knew he possessed. "Now!" Even Director Vance was evacuating, hurrying with shaky legs and a pounding heart. His frenzied breath belied his cool exterior.
McGee shook his head, still staying firmly behind his desk not even attempting to move even as Vance continued to berate him as various Agents almost ran past hi. "Just one second, Director," His voice was firm, his hands steady as he watched everything he - and NCIS - had on Harper Dearing fly through ad through into a folder, being stored onto a memory stick.
He paid no attention even as Director Vance hurried past him, the ding of the elevator sorely missed due to the fact that it was protocoll not to use the elevator. It was common sense really. He exhaled with relief when his computer dinged almost inaudibly, fingers slipping as they grabbed the memory stick that he made sure to store i his inner jacket pocket even as he steam-rolled ahead to the staircase at the far end of the bull-pen. A agent, pale-faced and sweating, hurried past him.
But they were too late.
The last thing he remembers is the loud bang, the shattering of windows as glass flew towards him, a sharp pain...then nothing.
When he comes too, he can't feel anything.
His ears are ringing something fierce as he presses his head against the floor for just a brief second to try and get it to stop. It doesn't. His ears are pounding, but he can't hear anything for a moment before it becomes a dull roar and he can hear the sounds of screams and cries and everything he never wanted to asscociate with the Navy Yard. His sight is dazed, fuzzy at best and plain grey at worse, but like his hearing it comes back to him making his head roar as the light strewn over him beckoned him.
He groaned lightly, pushing a battered computer chair from his stomach; he didn't know who it belonged too, didn't particularly want to kow at that precise moment because then it would mean that this was real; that it wasn't just a vivid dream that he would eventually awaken home, his family had been targeted, had bee hurt by that man and he had gotten away with it.
For a moment - and perhaps his life - Timothy McGee absolutely despised Harper Dearing.
But he had more pressing matters to deal with, the fact that he couldn't feel his right foot at that precise moment tantamount. Raising his head and only feeling the slightest of creaks in the bones and stretches in the muscles, McGee thunked his head back down upon the grey carpeted floor as he saw that a divider had taken home upon his foot. Just typical.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the dust covered ceilig that had shards of glass embedded within it. It seemed he had faired better then anything else around him. His memory was fuzzy, only bits and pieces coming back to him; he remembered Director Vances' sharp voice telling someone - him? - to get out.
"Kid?" A man, encased in a helmet and stark yellow uniform appeared upside down above him. "Kid, are you alright?" McGee tried to scowl, but it pulled unpleasantly at the cuts he could feel upon his face. But he nodded his head, a smile trying to tug vainly at his chapped lips. The firefighter, uniform ashy and ripped let out a relieved sound, ashen face splitting in a small smile as a gloved hand grasped his arms and heaved him up with minimal effort, the man gave him a once over before nodding, obviously seeing what he wanted before tossing him a tiny smile that screamed of relief before he moved on mind already on more important matters.
McGee tried not to stare at the burned and ashened body of who he knew to be Julia, a mother of two and wife to an Admiral overseas, yesterday had just been their anniversary. Shaking his already pounding, McGee tried in vain to ignore the fact that he was seeing double of everything and that it felt claustrophobically warm within the bullpen. He tried to remember why that was unusual, but found it hurt his head and made his sight go all fuzzy again.
Shaking his head again, McGee averted his eyes to that of his desk, heart sinking faster than a shooting star when he saw that the screen was cracked and distorted, ash and dust lying in every inch and contaminating it. He whined in the back of his throat. All his work, everything, gone. Even the memory stick he had stored in his inner jacket pocket, destroyed to hell. He could feel the jagged pieces irritating various bruises that had appeared upon his body and determinedly ignored the urge to itch them. It would do more harm then good.
Footsteps alerted him to a new presence within the bullpen but McGee didn't turn around, rather just took in the place where he worked, where he lived. With the trajectory of his desk, it had been pushed back, slightly blackened and ashy but under no great duress. Opposite, Gibbs' desk had only been slightly charred.
Rather than going in a different direction, the aforementioned footsteps neared McGee in the bullpen and his heart lept whe he heard them, he recognised who it was even before he turned to look.
"Hey boss," He said, voice raspy and somewhat weak, making Gibbs look at him with a little furrow between his eyebrows. Gibbs stopped in front of the younger Agent, icy eyes taking in the mans slightly battered appearance He did not bother with any pleasantries.
"You okay?" He asked, trying to keep the urgency from voice lest he startle his youngest agent. All of them, the three agents, were his. His family. His responsibility and he had failed them. He couldn't even begin to explain the relief he felt when McGee replied affirmatively, though the hesitation within his voice did nothing too assuage his fears.
"Yeah, I think so," He replied, voice still dazed though gaining strenght every passing minute. "You?" His green eyes looked over Gibbs, tracing the small cuts upon his forehead with a sense of worry. Gibbs was his fearless leader, his fearless father almost and if anything happened, Timothy McGee wasn't sure what would happen, to him nor to Tony or Ziva. But he knew it would't be pretty.
Looking away from Tim who was still standing there shakily, Gibbs rounded his desk. "Where's Tony and Ziva?" He questioned, worried about his two agents; they were now the only other members of his team that he didn't know the whereabouts of and he did't like it, not one bit.
"Erm, elevator," McGee made an aborted movement with his hand that had Gibbs looking at him with slight concern as he eyed the light sheen of sweat appearing on the younger man's ash-coloured forehead. "Workers are on it,"
For now, Gibbs - and McGee - could breath a sigh of relief. They both knew that after 9/11, MTAC - and by extension, the elevator Tony and Ziva where currently inhibiting - had been reinforced to withstand attacks such as this and would surely be okay, if not a little battered and a little bruised. Well, if Ziva didn't find a paper-clip before hand and commit homicide by killing Tony by paper-clip.
A small, almost unnoticeable smile passed over Gibbs lips as he picked up his desk phone from it's cradle, bringing it too his ear only to hear the insufferable dial tone he absolutely hated. But as he went to put it back down, his gut clenched and he eyed McGee with sudden worry.
"It feels really warm in here," McGee said, more so to himself than anything. His voice had gone dazed, weak as if he didn't know what quite was happening. "I think I'm gonna go get some fresh air,"
But it was when McGee was stripping off his thin layer coat that Gibbs saw it and it made his gut twist unpleasantly as he rounded his desk with hurried movements.
"Hey, stop," He ordered of McGee, who only looked at him with fevered eyes that held nothing but pain and confusion within the unusually dull depths.
"What?" McGee asked him. But rather than telling him, Gibbs only rounded his desk and used his hand to gently move the thin coat from the left side of McGee's abdomen. Both men looked down at the same time, Gibbs eyes flickering worriedly between the wound and his agents face.
The wound was a large shard of glass, embedded what seemed to be deeply within his agents stomach, the white button up shirt all too clearly showing the puddle of blood that had escaped it, staining his shirt irrepairably. Suddenly, everything seemed to rush to McGee at the same time. His pounding head reached it's peak, his ears roared even more dully and his vision whitened out for so long McGee almost thought he'd gone blind. But it was the throbbing in his stomach, centered on his left side that made his body sway. With dazed eyes, McGee looked up at Gibbs who was staring concernedly back at him.
"Uh oh," Was all he could manage, voice weaker than ever and just as dazed as his head.
A gentle but calloused hand found it's way to his cheek, and Tim could feel the hidden strength within it that made him just want to collapse and beg Gibbs to make it all better. In fact, that was just what he felt like doing, dignity or pride be damned.
Tim looked back up at Gibbs, the callouses of Gibbs hand somehow soothing upon his burnig skin. Gibbs eyes had widened slightly and even through his slowly returning vision, McGee could see the concerned glint within their iced depths.
He doesn't really remember much of what happened after that, McGee only remembers Gibbs' soft, concerned voice in his ear as he - and several others - led him away from the boiling bullpen, being practically carried down the stairwell before his eyes had to squint due to the bright sunlight and he would have inhaled deeply if it wouldn't have impacted with the shard of glass in his stomach.
The last thing that he remembered before darkness overtook him was of being placed into a hospital gurney, then an ambulance and Gibb's parting words still ringing in his ear.
"Remember Tim, you don't have permission to die,"